


gold-wreathed and beautiful (aphrodite i shall sing)

by loverloverlover



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Muggle AU, Royalty AU, and he's not wrong, james thinks lily is aphrodite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 23:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverloverlover/pseuds/loverloverlover
Summary: All his life, James Potter has known that he would have no control over who he married. After all, he’s to be the next king of England, and his betrothal has been arranged since he was a toddler. He wants to marry for love, and he’s loath to settle for anything less, but there’s no backing out. Enter Princess Lily Evans.[title from Homeric Hymn 6 to Aphrodite]
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & James Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	gold-wreathed and beautiful (aphrodite i shall sing)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the international wizarding school championship over on ffn.net!
> 
> theme: first love
> 
> mandatory prompt: [image] “the birth of venus” by sandro botticelli 
> 
> additional prompt: [word] narcissism

James Potter, crown prince and first in line to the throne of England, was storming down the torch-lit castle corridor. He wore no formal livery, no superficial adornment other than the golden pin etched with his family crest, which hung from the thinly-woven chain around his neck. He had come from his lessons in swordsmanship with his most trusted guard, Remus Lupin, and he remained flushed from the exertion—though his agitated mood was no help to his complexion. 

That he knew this day was always coming wasn’t of any help to his current frame of mind. Though he had been born into an elevated position where sentiments such as romantic attachments were folly, he was still resistant to the societal expectation that he was to marry for political gain. He had known the name of the woman he was to marry since he was old enough to understand the meaning of a betrothal, and he used to spend many a night contemplating what she would be like, and whether she would find him charming. 

He no longer harboured such thoughts, and he had rebelliously spent the last five years “courting” any woman that caught his fancy (even a few servants, to the horror of his parents). Truth be told, he was most resistant to his situation _not_ because he was resentful of his position as crown prince—he actually carried that title with great pride, and he was always attentive to his father’s ‘kingly’ lessons—but rather because he still held the hope that, one day, he would find a woman to love for real. A woman who loved him with equal fervor in return.

And yet, for all his attempts to discover that elusive emotion and soul-deep connection, he’d never known romantic love. He’d explored lust in all its forms—on enough occasions that he rivaled the court rake, his best friend, Lord Sirius Black—but that bubble of warmth, that _pitter-patter_ of the heart that the poets spoke of, had always evaded him.

His parents had found real love despite the odds stacked against them and _their_ arranged marriage, and he had hoped to find that as well. One would think that since he’d witnessed an arranged marriage blossom into something real, he would hold out hope for himself. Not the case. He had bedded so many unhappily married women of the aristocracy that he knew his parents were an anomaly. 

Nevertheless, James had believed he’d still have a few unmarried years left to enjoy, but he’d just been informed that his bride-to-be would be arriving at court within the week. Self-imposed rake status aside, he was not the type of man who would step out on his wedded wife—no matter that the practice of adultery was in abundance amongst the aristocracy. Once he was attached, he would remain committed for the rest of his life no matter how _not_ in love he was, of that he was sure of.

Hence his stormy demeanor and fast-paced march towards his father’s study. His complaining, he knew, would get him nowhere, but damned if he wasn’t going to try. 

Rounding the final corner, he approached the double doors to his father’s council chambers, the two guards stationed outside straightening when they caught sight of him. 

“Your Royal Highness,” they greeted in unison, the two of them bowing their heads in deference. 

“I must speak with my father,” he replied as he reached them. 

The two guards nodded once again, and they swept open the doors immediately. James thanked them as he stepped into the room.

James had been in these rooms so often that he knew the layout by heart. A large map table was stationed in the center, with a grand marble fireplace on the far wall, and his father’s favorite sculpture was in a well-lit alcove off to the right. The walls were further adorned with great paintings of all styles and subject matter. This was the king’s formal council chamber, and its decor greatly reflected that title; his father’s private study, only accessible through the king and queen’s royal chambers, was much cozier and more personal.

His father was seated behind his large oak desk, his head bowed over a piece of parchment as he wrote his missives. He looked up at James’ entrance, and his expression was as welcoming and warm as always—so welcoming and warm, in fact, that James deflated almost immediately.

At the drooping of his shoulders and the heavy sigh he released, his father’s expression morphed into one of further kindness and empathy.

“Sit, Son,” his father ordered, indicating a chair to the right of his desk that he kept for such occasions as this. “I am assuming you have been told of Her Highness’ imminent arrival.”

James nodded mutely as he fell into the soft chair.

“Your mother had wished to inform you herself, but I should have known court gossip would reach you first. I must admit, I hadn’t expected this particular reaction from you.”

“You know that I don’t yet wish to be married,” James replied.

“Yes.”

James ran a hand through his hair and slouched dejectedly at his father’s steadfast and simple reply, losing that final bit of hope that this whole thing could be put off further in the tone of the man’s voice.

“Why, then?” he asked plaintively.

“Her parents are, let us say... _eager_ to make the betrothal official,” his father hedged. “Everything was arranged when you were but four, as you know, and twenty years is a long while for a contract to sit, especially as you are both of marriageable age. _She_ has been of age for almost three years, and her parents are supposedly fielding offers from other suitors despite her being promised to you. I confess I am... worried they will accept one of those offers and dissolve the contract with us.”

He knew that an outburst of, “Yes! Let’s have them sever the agreement!” would not go over well, so he bit his tongue.

“Surely they won’t, though,” James said. “Terminate things, that is? You’re the King of England, Father. And I am the future king. Surely it’s not narcissistic of me to say that they would gain no favors from us if an annulment occurred?”

“True,” his father conceded with a nod. “However, they would gain from other marriage arrangements, just as they stand to gain from England. If they do not believe you will ever marry her—which is the impression it will give if this is put off any longer—then, for the sake of her country, she must marry someone else sooner rather than later.”

“Right.”

James looked around in resignation, avoiding his father’s eyes. His gaze caught on the familiar painting on the far wall—the one where the goddess of love emerged from the sea on the cusp of a shell. He stared at that canvas often, though he now looked at it with envy and longing rather than with his usual simple appreciation for its artistry.

“When is she set to arrive?”

.:..:.

It turned out that the court gossip was wrong about one thing, surprise, surprise. When James had heard “within the week” from Remus, he had expected to _have_ the week. He had not expected to be forced to face her the very next afternoon. His saving grace was that the court required at least a month to properly prepare for a wedding of royal caliber, and Lords who did not live in the castle required at _least_ that much time to make their way from their estates throughout England.

Contrary to his simple attire the previous afternoon, he was decked out in all his royal splendor for his first official meeting of his betrothed. His purple waistcoat was embroidered with silver and gold thread, and the brass buttons were polished to within an inch of their lives. His pants were a simple gray, and his dark boots were shiny in the sunlight streaming in through an open window. The pin he usually wore on a necklace was pinned to his brocade, along with a few military medals, and his shoulders were further ornamented with silver epaulettes.

As James adjusted his collar so it lay flat, he again caught sight of Sirius in the reflection of the mirror. His closest friend was lounging sideways on an armchair in front of the fire, and he was, for some unknown reason, whittling away at a piece of wood, the pale slivers he shaved off falling to his chest and littering the floor. James had learned long ago it was best not to ask, and the familiarity of Sirius’ strangeness was comforting. 

“I can’t believe you’re finally getting married,” Sirius mused as he blew a few stray shavings off the pointed end of the stick. 

“Apparently it’s now or never,” James replied, turning away from his reflection, and his attempts to flatten his hair, to walk towards the door. “And my father’s unaccepting of the very _idea_ of ‘never.’”

Sirius jumped to his feet and dusted off his chest. He threw the piece of wood to the cushion and slipped his dagger into the holster he wore in place of a sword when he was in the castle. 

“But ole Monty is usually so accommodating,” Sirius joked as he followed James into the corridor. Sirius had promised to accompany him today, and James was grateful for it.

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” James smiled, thankful for his friend’s attempt at levity. “And _definitely_ don’t let him hear you call him ‘Monty.’ You know my mother is the only one he allows to take such a liberty.”

Sirius made a _phsh_ sound and flipped his hand in a whatever-you-say motion. Sirius kept up a steady stream of commentary and jokes as the two walked on to the parlour where he was to meet _her_ for the first time, and Sirius _was_ careful not to refer to James’ father as ‘Monty’ where others could hear him. For all of Sirius’ bluster and apparent disregard for the rules, he was respectful of the king—respectful of the man who took him under his wing when Sirius’ own father was imprisoned for treason against the crown. 

In no time at all, they were outside the parlour, and James could hear his parents’ voices filtering through the heavy wood. His father had accommodated James’ one request and agreed not to force him to have this first introduction in the throne room—in front of the entire court. James took a final deep breath and nodded to the guards, the same two who followed his father everywhere during the daylight hours, to open the doors.

His father was standing in front of the large bay window on the far wall, listening to his mother tell one of her many stories for likely the tenth time. His mother stood from the settee and halted her story when she saw him. He greeted her with a doting kiss to her cheek and a soft murmuration of, “Mother.”

She placed her warm hands on each side of his face and looked him in the eyes. “Chin up, darling. Everything will work out for the better.”

“I hope so,” he replied, quietly enough that only she could hear. 

He had but a second to gather strength from his mother before a man cleared his throat and said a lot of nonsense involving titles and honorifics, but James heard none of it. He was too busy falling far away from his body. The man had apparently finished with his spiel because he stepped back and gestured to a door that led not to the corridor James had come from, but to a separate parlour. 

As a woman walked into the room, her head held high, James continued to fall away from his body, but for a completely different reason. Two women accompanied her, but _she_ was all James could see. Her flaming red hair was curling and wisping from an elegantly woven knot at the crown of her head, and a delicate golden tiara with pearlescent stones and burnished gold leaves marked her station. She was resplendent in a gown of pale green, its bodice embroidered with darker, swirling designs. Her freckles were prominent across both her pale cheeks and her exposed collarbones, and her green eyes were beyond striking as they gazed at him piercingly.

This was _her._ This was the woman he was to marry—the one whose name he never uttered aloud for fear of conjuring her as if she were a wraith. Lily Evans, Princess of Scotland.

As James continued to look at her, heedless of the courtly errors he was making in not greeting her properly, all his worries about never finding love evaporated from his thoughts like they’d never existed in the first place. 

His heart was doing a funny thing in his chest, and he absently rubbed at his sternum. 

Backlit as she was by the open door and pale torchlight behind her, she was evocative of the painting in the council chambers. With one handmaiden to her left, the other to her right next to the herald—who was gazing at the princess as though she were the answer to all his questions—she stepped into the position of Venus. She was a goddess in her own right, and he was immediately sucked into her orbit, prepared to worship at her altar. 

He gradually became aware of all the eyes on him, his brain coming to the surface slowly, and he hastily bowed in her direction—though his eyes never once left hers. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

She curtsied and said, “You as well, Your Highness.”

“James, please,” he said hastily. Her eyes flared in surprise at his insistence of informality, and behind him, Sirius coughed to cover his snort of laughter.

More pleasantries were exchanged then, and James focused on the gentle cadence of her voice—on the way her mouth formed the words and how her accent differed from his own. When the next lull in conversation presented itself, James said, “I thought, perhaps, that we might take a stroll through the gardens.”

“Did you, Son?” his father said, his voice inordinately pleased, if a little teasing.

“Yes,” James said pointedly. “If the lady is amenable, of course? I thought it would be a good way for us to become better acquainted.”

James’ heart soared when she replied with an affirmative. Then he was offering her his arm, she was placing her delicate hand on his forearm, and he was leading her through the corridors. They exited the castle through a side door that led straight to the gardens. He barely noticed the chaperones following in their wake—her two ladies-in-waiting ten paces back, and Sirius another pace behind that.

“This is not what I expected of our first meeting, Your Highness,” she said, breaking their silence first and looking up at him.

“What _did_ you expect?” he asked. _And I wish you would call me James,_ he silently added again.

“Quite a bit more aloofness on your part, I admit,” she replied. “I most definitely did not expect you to wish to get to _know_ me—especially _before_ the wedding. I rather thought you’d take one look at me, speak to me long enough to appease the king, and then not see me again until I was walking down the aisle.”

He kept his mouth shut on the fact that that was exactly how he’d expected it to go as well. He said instead, “We _are_ to be married. Should we not know each other at least a little before we say ‘I do’? My parents’ marriage was arranged, just as ours is, and they’ve managed to turn it into something more than the contract they were forced to sign.”

“I don’t think my parents have even spoken to each other in years,” she admitted.

They walked for a minute in silence as James mulled over that sad prospect. He was very aware of the way her hand gripped his arm, her fingers, at times, pressing in hard enough that he felt her nails through his jacket; he didn’t think she was aware of doing it. And though they walked a proper distance apart, each brush of her skirts against his leg was chipping away at his sanity. He kept catching glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye, and he was afraid that if he looked at her full-on, he’d drop to his knees in supplication.

“I don’t want that,” he finally said, deciding to be completely honest as he continued looking out over the gardens full of violets, daisies, and primroses—a myriad of reds, yellows, and purples.

She pulled him to a stop, and despite his unfounded fear of facing her, he did so immediately, worried that he’d put his foot in it. It was foolish of him to think that his dreams for the future were aligned with hers. And it was most definitely the peak of narcissism for him to assume that she was as willing to forge a relationship with him as he was with her—especially one of a romantic nature. 

But then she gazed up at him— _Lily_ gazed up at him, and his mind ground to yet another halt.

“I don’t want that either, James,” she said.

.:..:.

A month later, as choral music echoed off the gothic arches of Westminster Abbey, James took a bracing breath, but not because he was resigned to his fate. As Lily knelt next to him in front of the altar, and her veil was lifted, James looked into her eyes and saw the rest of his life. And it was joyful. Full of love.

He was not hesitant in the slightest as they smiled at each other. He embraced this newfound kernel of warmth in his chest as, together, they faced the bishop to be wed.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> this royalty!AU stems from my love of ‘reign’ and, weirdly enough, my current rewatch of ‘the vampire diaries.’ i was watching damon salvatore whittle some white oak stakes when james saw sirius in the mirror lol. and full disclosure, all my knowledge of 18th-century royalty comes from one history course in college and a love of period dramas lol. i will say that the image prompt brought up all my memories of the art-history courses that i took for my history minor in college, and i remembered more than i ever thought i would. and the reality of ‘the birth of venus’ hanging in an english castle? funny
> 
> also, i wanted to point out some little nuances of the image prompt for clarity’s sake: the flowers in the gardens are the same as some found in the painting. the burnished leaves in lily’s crown are reminiscent of myrtle leaves, like the ones the nymph wears around her neck, and the “pearlescent stones” are reminiscent of the scallop shell venus is standing on. even the position of her handmaidens and the herald are similar to the positions of the figures in the painting.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it! let me know your thoughts :))


End file.
